


Degradation

by EbonyAura



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Flirting, Bullying, Crack (depends on how you look at the ending), Cruelty, Developing Relationship, Insults, M/M, Mental Breakdown, New looks (some good some REALLY bad some just downright hilarious), Punishment, Serious Injuries, Slow Burn, Taunts, Trauma, prank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 03:35:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20846867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyAura/pseuds/EbonyAura
Summary: There, in front of the window, was Optimus Prime, staring uncomprehendingly at his reflection within it. In the glass, Megatron could see his optics were cycled to their widest setting, and his facial plating had twisted into an expression of shock and distress. And his frame…Megatron sucked in a vent as his spark curled in on itself.His frame, standing so rigid his joints were audibly creaking in protest, was etched in writing."We are... not the faded echoes of voices crying out names will never hurt me.Of course they did."-Shane Koyczan





	Degradation

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Written words, hidden body](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4870477) by [terig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/terig/pseuds/terig). 

> So here's the sceneario.  
The Autobots and the Decepticons have established a truce, and are currently residing on the Nemesis still orbiting the Earth while their peace treaty is being finalized. Starscream is a mean bitch, the Autobots are not taking any of his shit, Megatron is an awkward mess of feelings that cannot for the life of him sort itself out, and Optimus is about to be put through a whole lot of shit. 
> 
> None of the characters or the setting belong to me. 
> 
> Have a good day

“Incoming transmission, Lord Megatron.”  
  
The silver mech recycled his optics, lifted from his state of contemplation by one of the vehicons on the monitors of the bridge. Glancing back over his spiked shoulder, he spoke with a rasp that effortlessly filled the room.  
  
“From who?”  
  
He asked, turning around to step up to the lone mech looking at him. Deft digits returning to the keyboard in front of him, the vehicon typed in a string of code that brought up back-tracked information on the transmission.  
  
“Caller identification resides on Earth. Designation: Agent William Fowler. Permission to answer?”  
  
The reply was monotonous. Immediately, the warlord fought the urge to growl. No matter Optimus’s favorable opinion of him, or the human’s current status to the Decepticons as an ally, he was still an annoying insect he could bear to live without. To keep his helm on his shoulders in the presence of the Prime, Megatron was careful to keep this opinion tight-lipped. Others under his command, however, only so happy to speak their processor.  
  
“That pitiful excuse for a living creature must be looking for his _precious_ Prime to rant about all of his _mudball’s_ glitches.”  
  
A pitchy, high sneer pierced the bridge, eliciting everyone present to turn their audials down a notch. This time Megatron fought a groan, having hoped to avoid the seeker for another groon.  
  
“Were you not supposed to be back from air patrol of the Nemesis’s allotted course three groons ago, Starscream?”  
  
He growled, not even sparing his second in command a glance. To that, he heard an audible huff and the click of heels growing closer.  
  
“There were regions of the southern continents I felt required more extensive patrol for energon deposits, _my lord_.”  
  
Starscream spat, his voice crawling over the silver mech like a scraplet. He took a moment to question once more why he didn’t simply eradicate the murder-happy seeker when he had the chance. Quickly he was answered by the Prime’s ever-echoing voice in his helm; reminding him as he had on the cycle they declared their truce that no matter the opinions to be stated, standing steadfast against them would be wiser than responding by violence. Recycling his optics once more, he gave a fleeting glare to his second in command standing behind with his hip cocked to the side.  
  
“Desist.”  
  
Megatron turned back to the vehicon.  
  
“Permission granted. Pull video feed up on the monitor.”  
  
The vehicon nodded once, and with a couple clicks of keys, the screen flicked brighter to show their human ally. The light flooding in from the window behind him led the warlord to infer that he was sitting in his miniscule office.  
  
“Prime!! Megatron, where’s Prime?! I got a bone to pick with him!”  
  
He grumbled loudly, arms crossed over his chest with an unimpressed frown. The seeker behind him audibly scoffed, and he cycled his vents to then mirror the human’s pose.  
  
“He is currently drafting the final conditions of our peace treaty in his quarters, Agent Fowler. In his absence, is there something I can assist you with?”  
  
Even managing to speak without a growl, he addressed the human agent with the silent muse that Optimus would’ve been proud of him for it. Agent Fowler, however, only seemed to grow more agitated by his forced politeness, and he watched as the human’s eyes darkened.  
  
“Unless you can disarm the lockdown traps triggered by our maintenance team in the Autobot base, no. I don’t think you can.”  
  
Fowler was particularly good at using tones that would most likely make other humans shudder. Megatron, on the other hand, only raised a metal brow.  
  
“What was one of your maintenance teams doing in the Autobot base in the first place?”  
  
He asked, if not the slightest bit offended on the Prime’s behalf that the humans had tried to enter the Autobot base without even asking their permission. Agent Fowler huffed, pinching his nasal ridge.  
  
“It’s this ridiculous protocol set in place by the Pentagon. All bases in America must undergo routine inspection every five years to prove standard validity of their stature. I was only notified of their pending arrival _an hour_ in advance and had no time to warn them of the security measures set in place!”  
  
With that the human glanced back up at Megatron, his glare still dark and impatient.  
  
“So unless you can manually shut down the laser beams that nearly obliterated three men, I would like to speak to Prime, _please_.”  
  
The warlord stared blankly at the human as he quipped the final word, trying to figure out why everyone he interacted with this cycled had to have such an attitude. After fighting off another sigh, Megatron silently lifted his digits to his audial sensor to activate his comm link.  
  
“Optimus, this is Megatron. Agent Fowler is on transmission, requesting your presence at the bridge.”  
  
Lifting his digits away, he waited for the prompt response.  
  
He received none.  
  
He waited as a couple nanoseconds ticked past, his metal brows slowly furrowing in confusion. No matter the place, time, or current task Optimus was always punctual with comm responses. The silver mech’s optics drifted away from the monitor as he tried again.  
  
“Optimus, this is Megatron. Respond.”  
  
Silence reigned again. Ten seconds passed before Fowler threw up his arms and butted in once more.  
  
“What’s Prime doing now?! Catching up on beauty sleep?!”  
  
For the first time since the call began, Starscream decided to comment. Megatron found himself surprised the seeker had not done so earlier.  
  
“Our _illustrious_ Prime, recharging on the job? What a scandal you suggest, Agent. Say that in front of him, and you might _actually_ find him offended.”  
  
The warlord’s servo twitched, resisting the urge to clench into a fist where others could see. This time he turned around to fully face the arrogant seeker.  
  
“That is enough, Starscream.”  
  
He growled warningly, receiving a raised optical brow in response. When there was no scathing retort to follow, he glimpsed back at Fowler on the monitor.  
  
“If you would excuse me for a few kliks, Agent Fowler, I will fetch Optimus myself… In the meantime, Starscream, keep your _attitude_ in check.”  
  
Megatron sent a pointed gaze at the seeker as he ambled away, not looking back as the human huffed in frustration.  
  
“Sometime today would be nice, Megatron!”  
  
“Oh, have patience, Agent Fowler. It seems he’ll need a few kliks to wake the Prime from his ‘beauty sleep,’ as you so generously called it.”  
  
Behind him they sniped and bickered, and the silver mech would not admit to anyone but himself that he was glad for an escape, no matter how short it may be. The Prime’s quarters on the ship were not far from the bridge, after all, placed right across from his so in case of emergencies during off-groons, they could quickly make their way back.  
  
Releasing the sigh he’d withheld, he lifted his digits once more to his audial.  
  
“Optimus, this is Megatron, attempting for the third time to contact you. Respond.”  
  
He waited. Silence still reigned. For a moment, he wondered if the Prime was purposely ignoring him. But as quickly as the thought surfaced, it was dismissed. Optimus may enjoy isolating himself, but he would never purposely ignore someone, much less the Decepticon leader if they were to continue their established truce. It was possible he might’ve been on the comm link with one of his Autobots. Then again, after the second attempt on Megatron’s part, one would think he’d sense the urgency and pause to gauge it. And at this point, the warlord absolutely refused to believe that Optimus had actually fallen to recharge while working. While it would’ve explained why multiple comm attempts had failed, he knew for a fact Optimus Prime would be the last mech to succumb to exhaustion in the midst of a task. It was one of his most admirable, and slagging irritating qualities.  
  
Processor running through all the possibilities behind this sudden silence, a sudden surge of annoyance flooded his energon piping as he kept coming up blank. Megatron couldn’t help but grumble to himself as he walked.  
  
“Figures, Optimus. You’ll happily answer my off-groon comms to decline a simple invitation to share energon. Yet when Fowler decides to breathe down my backplates because of the ridiculousness of the human species, you deflect all my comms.”  
  
As he raved to himself, he made quick work of navigating the Nemesis’s halls, crossing through two intersecting hallways and turning a corner before entering the section of officer’s quarters on the eastern side of the ship.  
  
It was then that he heard something reverberating through the hall, something resembling a choked moan. He halted in step, turning up his audials to hear it better. His optics unconsciously lowered to the floor as he listened to the moan, not able to recognize the voice it came from but noticing when it picked up intensity. The silver mech could only compare it to the sound a mech would make as he was pierced through the spark. Confusion danced in his magnetic field.  
  
“What in the pits of Kaon…?”  
  
The moan abruptly cut off, replaced by a terrible scream.  
  
He recognized the voice instantly, and his helm snapped up.  
  
“Optimus?!”  
  
Megatron abandoned all thought of Agent Fowler and his dilemma, sprinting down the hall towards the Prime’s quarters. He slid to a stop when he reached the door, his peds slipping out from under him and causing him to run in place to compensate. The door opened without a hitch when he ran into it, stumbling into a plain room decorated only by a berth, a desk littered in datapads, a chair, and a polished window of outer space taking up the expanse of the far wall.  
  
There, in front of the window, was Optimus Prime, staring uncomprehendingly at his reflection within it. In the glass, Megatron could see his optics were cycled to their widest setting, and his facial plating had twisted into an expression of shock and distress. And his frame…  
  
Megatron sucked in a vent as his spark curled in on itself.  
  
His frame, standing so rigid his joints were audibly creaking in protest, was etched in writing. Symbols both Cybertronian and standard English had been scratched into his plating, lines grazed so deep energon prickled and dripped from them. Every one of them spelled out appalling insults, ranging from shameful and degrading to brutal and cruel.  
  
_Spineless coward, spark-less machine, weak-willed Matrix husk, hideous beast, wretched scrap metal, human cunt, Primus’s mindless slave, frothing mongrel, pathetic pleasure bot, demented terracon, whore of Unicron, sparkling rapist…_  
  
The final comment he observed, carved into one of the Prime’s glass chest plates, made his fists clench so tightly his claws dug grooves into his palms. There were some lows even he would not sink to, not when new life was held so sacred to their race.  
  
No part of his frame was spared, from his fore-helm to his leg struts he was stained by dribbling energon and derogatory language. He was rendered almost unrecognizable.  
  
Megatron finally yanked himself out of his abhorred stupor, remembering that the mech in front of him was the Prime, and that he was probably in a substantial amount of pain.  
  
“… Optimus?”  
  
The warlord began slowly, taking a careful step to approach him. As if realizing that there was another bot in the room, the Prime suddenly jolted where he stood, whirling around with an injured croak to stare at the Decepticon leader. Megatron halted once more, taken aback by the other mech’s uncharacteristic panic.  
  
Then again, it shouldn’t have been a surprise. He could only imagine how it must feel to have your ex-enemy walk in on you in such a moment.  
  
“Optimus… what happened?”  
  
Megatron asked, lowering his voice to a softer volume. His Kaoni accent surfaced without the normal volume to hide it. The Prime could barely manage a response.  
  
“… I… I… I-I…”  
  
He stuttered. The warlord’s optics flicked from his face to his shoulders as they began to shake, high levels of stress rendering him incapable of normal function. His peds were moving before he could stop himself, half-jogging towards the Autobot leader with unhidden urgency. Optimus’s first reaction was to shy away, backing into the window behind him and effectively cornering himself before he could process what was happening. Energon running from scratches on his back marred the glass, falling to the floor in quiet plunks. Megatron stopped in front of him, gathering the Prime’s servos in his own and ignoring the way they quaked in his grasp. Ignoring the warm, glowing, and sticky moisture that gushed from their cuts.  
  
“How did this happen? Who did this to you?”  
  
Trying to stay calm and speak softly was difficult when the shock fell away, and fury began to burn at his spark. His processor was already running through all the mecha residing on the ship, attempting to rationalize what sick-minded fragger would do this to _Optimus slagging Prime_. But the attempt at this train of thought did not prevail in the end, not as he watched the Autobot leader crumble before his optics. Optimus shuddered and tremored, his optics pointedly avoided his at all costs, he stuttered and choked on his words. It was like he’d been stripped to his bare components and left to fend for himself. Megatron never imagined in his lifetime he would witness the Prime like this.  
  
It was like beholding the final cycles of Orion Pax.  
  
“Optimus, look at me.”  
  
He asked quietly, but firmly. When the Prime did not respond after a few nanoseconds, the warlord released one of his servos to place clawed digits under his chin. Megatron lifted it just enough that he had to force himself to ignore the words deranged and mindless clawed in Cybertronian glyphs over his silver face plating and focus instead on the bright blue optics that were gaping at him.  
  
Broken and terrified, their fragility disrupted whatever he’d planned to ask next, leaving them in a quiet so thick it seemed impossible to shear. For a long time they stared at each other, unable to react in a way that would’ve been comprehendible with spoken words. Like another limb, Megatron’s field reached out cautiously, seeking out the other mech’s field. What he found was the Prime had pulled his field in so tightly it could not be felt beyond the expanse of his frame. Usually he kept it reined, but it was always surrounding him just enough that others in his vicinity could feel his calm energy. It was never caged so far within his physical confines.  
  
One shattering realization after the next brought Megatron to take a small step back, no longer crowding him. His digits fall away from the other’s chin.  
  
“We need to get to the med-bay to have these welded.”  
  
He stated plainly, if not solemnly. Optimus gazed at him blankly, his reaction to the statement unreadable. Megatron continued.  
  
“I’ll go with you. I know a quieter route mecha will be least likely to take. Alright?”  
  
For a long moment, he was met again with silence and a blank stare, as if Optimus could not properly process what he’d just been told. But when the moment ended, he nodded. As soon as the affirmative was given, Megatron turned and walked back towards the door, tightly grasping the Prime’s servo. Hearing a hiss of pain and uneven steps behind him, the warlord slowed, remembering that any movement the Prime made had to be excruciating. Halting at the entrance, he looked out both ways before glancing back at the Autobot leader.  
  
“If I’m walking too fast, or you need to stop, let me know immediately. And if we come across anyone, ignore them. Do not pay attention to anything they say. I will not let them anywhere near you, nor will I let them use this as an advantage over you in any way. Do you understand?”  
  
The Prime’s optics widened in the slightest motion, as if surprised at what he was hearing. To prove it, the Decepticon leader let his magnetic field spread again to brush against the other, letting him feel his honest conviction and determination to see this through. After that, blue optics recycled, and Optimus nodded once. Simultaneously, pressure on his servo increased, and Megatron looked down to see his digits were encased by both of the other’s quivering black servos. Without another word, he curled his digits over them to silently give the comfort they sought, and then led them out into the hallway.  
  
Together, they walked in a southern direction out of the eastern quarters, taking a winding path through the hallways to deter any unwanted contact. Optimus walked just slightly behind him on his left side, and Megatron continually glanced over his shoulder to note his reactions. He stared at the floor, his intake clamped shut and frame moving inflexibly as if every step was torture. Small whimpers bled from his throat, unable to be gagged back.  
  
It was so pathetic to hear that it was absolutely maddening. Megatron fought to relax the servo that was still clutched tightly in the other’s grasp, but he couldn’t stop the scarlet red that flooded his vision. Whoever had the gall to commit such a _despicable_ crime would not get away with this. Once he got ahold of Soundwave’s surveillance footage, they would be exposed. And when that happened, not even Primus would be able to save them. They would die screaming. Their energon would coat the walls. He would make sure of it.  
  
They made decent progress until about halfway there, when they had to cross another intersection and pass through the main hall to reach the western section of the ship. As they did, they heard laughter booming from their left. Their resident Autobot wreckers, Bulkhead and Wheeljack, were sauntering down the hallway, the white bot’s arms waving animatedly as he seemed to be telling a story. Megatron picked up pace, attempting to cross through the intersection unnoticed. But when silence abruptly pierced the soldiers’ animated conversation, he knew it was too late.  
  
“Optimus, w-what…?”  
  
“… Fraggin’ pit!!”  
  
Bulkhead gasped as Wheeljack swore, both of their expressions dumbfounded as they were given a full body view of their faction leader. Optimus froze mid-step, optics pointed dead ahead but dimming with trepidation, his field flaring in panic. Slowly, he glanced at them, taking in their differing reactions as their blue optics followed the trail of the Prime’s energon trickling over his limbs and oozing to the floor. Wheeljack’s optics flicked back up to the symbols, and his lip plates curled up in outrage. Bulkhead’s servos flew over his intake, and after a moment coolant flooded them. Megatron turned to give them a pointed warning stare. For all he knew, they were the ones who did it, even if their reactions said otherwise.  
  
“If you have _any_ sense of respect for your leader, you’ll forget what you saw here.”  
  
He snapped, tugging on the servos he held to put them back in motion. Optimus immediately followed, his upper body hunching in shame and his grip tightening ever further. They made it down another hallway before it got worse, and they began to pass vehicons. Thankfully, most of them knew better than to let their reactions be anymore than minor. But each one they passed, they couldn’t help noticing how their optical bands flashed, how they inhaled quick vents and whispered to each other like younglings. A few of them burst into tears before running the other way, as if they couldn’t bear to be in the vicinity of what they perceived. One of them took one glance and fainted, collapsing against his companions that speedily grabbed him and made themselves scarce. With every new reaction, Optimus edged closer to him, coming so close that one of his servos grasped the warlord’s upper bicep, ventilations fast and shallow. He wrapped his field around the other, trying to express emotional security.  
  
Bumblebee came around the next corner, carrying the human children with him. Jack and Miko were stationed next to each other on his shoulder, while Rafael sat cross-legged in his palm. Both leaders only had a moment to feel dread before the scout’s wings flung up to stand ramrod straight against his back, his bright optics bulging from their sockets. Jack and Rafael shared his horrified, silent shock. Miko shrieked.  
  
Optimus jumped backwards in terror and humiliation, the sudden jolt of his frame causing agony and wrenching a yell from his intake. Before he could fall, Megatron’s other servo shot out behind him to grasp the Prime’s arm strut, yanking him upright. In instant response, Optimus recoiled out of view, huddled so close to his spinal strut that his trembling plating tapped repeatedly against shining silver. His servos scrabbled for purchase on the other’s arm, continually slipping as the energon dripping from his digits glazed the Decepticon’s armor. Megatron ignored it, barking at Bumblebee.  
  
“Get the children out of here _immediately_! Do not let them anywhere in the vicinity of the med-bay!”  
  
The scout and humans were left standing in the middle of the hallway as Megatron side-stepped them, rushing around the next corner with the mentally deteriorating Prime in tow.  
  
“Almost there. We’re almost there.”  
  
He spoke over his shoulder, his voice unexpectedly gentle after the outburst. The silver mech took no time to question his behavior, resolved to get Optimus somewhere safe from viewers. What witnesses already saw would spread swiftly through the Nemesis, soldiers would flock like birds to find out what was going on. And it was most likely that half of them were already blaming _him_ for it.  
  
No. There were some lows even he would not sink to.  
  
They turn the final corner, the med-bay in view, and Megatron’s shoulders tense. Already, the Autobot team has gathered at the entrance, including Bumblebee, the children gone from his shoulders and palm. With them came the Decepticon officers, confusedly taking in their worried and fearful expressions. With the officers, came an even larger crowd of vehicons and eradicons, crowding on the other side of them to whisper and mutter.  
  
When they came into full view, the whispers ceased, and all attention focused on the two of them. The Autobots whipped around and ran forward, their fields lashing around them uncontrollably. Arcee was the first to speak, standing at the head of the group.  
  
“What did you do to him?!”  
  
She snarled murderously, the blades on her arms unsheathing with a _shnnk_. The rest of the Autobot warriors followed, blasters and blades coming online and at the ready. Behind them, Dreadwing and some of the vehicons drew their own weapons, ready to open fire. Megatron half expected the Prime to jump out from behind them and demand their weapons be disarmed. Instead, his quivering increased, and with another whimper he leaned against the warlord. Inferring that it was becoming too much to stand on his own, Megatron shifted to the side and pulled Optimus’s arm over his shoulders, helping him once again to stay upright. Arcee’s expression quickly changed to one of revulsion, followed by Dreadwing and any of the other soldiers present that had not seen. Hushed gasps, muffled exclamations, and cries resonated in the hall.  
  
“What is going on out here??”  
  
The med-bay door opened, and out stalked Ratchet with a wrench in servo ready to be thrown. He glared out at the crowd, his face falling in confusion until he turned to see Megatron and Optimus by the entrance. Ventilations circulating from the old Autobot medic ceased.  
  
“_Primus below_…”  
  
He mouthed, the wrench slipping from his digits and clattering to the floor. After that no one moved, too shocked and abhorred by the unspeakable titles cut into the Autobot leader’s plating to remember the rising tension. It remained this way for a few more nanoseconds, and Megatron was about to throw them both the rest of the way. But before he could move, a sadistic cackle emerged from the silence.  
  
The warlord’s vision slammed back into crimson when he realized how high-pitched it was.  
  
“Well, well, it looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the berth.”  
  
Starscream hummed, his heels clicking against the floor. Around him, mecha stepped back and stared. Optimus tensed against the Decepticon holding him, helm jerking up to gape at the seeker. On a suspicious whim, the warlord’s optics flicked to his second in command’s claws, analyzing their color closer than he had earlier. Their tips were stained blue. A thunderous snarl rolled up from his chest.  
  
“_Starscream_…”  
  
The silver mech rumbled, but the seeker was either too proud of himself or too dumb to care about how close he was to being offlined. Strolling past the Autobots, he looked Optimus in the optic as he spoke.  
  
“How must it feel to have everything about you broadcasted for everyone to see, o illustrious Prime? I’ll wager it must be quite embarrassing.”  
  
Arcee’s helm slowly turned towards Starscream, her expression twisting even darker. The other Autobots around her mirrored the sentiment. All of it was ignored by the seeker.  
  
“That is, if you can even _feel_ such an emotion. Do you, Optimus? Rumor has it that the Matrix robbed you of all emotions and left you a spark-less shell. I think it makes sense; why else would you let so many of your Autobots perish on a rusting planet, leaving the remaining eight to starve while we mined all the energon remaining? Why, come to think of it, that would make you no better than a sparkling rapist.”  
  
Anguished and stupefied faces of their bystanders gawked. How could anyone even _think_ to accuse Optimus Prime in such a way? How could one even _dare_?  
  
Starscream stared evenly into the Prime’s faceplates, his lip plates curling up into a wicked smirk as he watched energon leak over the leader’s stunned, pained, and devastated expression.  
  
“You should’ve let us execute them, _whore of Unicron_. What a mercy it would’ve been, compared to the pit you put them through.”  
  
It was like someone threw gasoline on a fire.  
  
The armed Autobots promptly forgot about Megatron’s existence and threw themselves at his second in command with rabid war cries. Starscream only had time to turn around before his heels were pulled out from under him, and he was dragged backwards into a circle of fists and peds. To Megatron’s grim surprise, Dreadwing and a number of both vehicons and eradicons followed, charging with curses of rage and hatred flying out of their intakes. He made no move to stop it, nor did anyone else standing by.  
  
A low keen caught his attention, causing Megatron to recycle his optics and look at the Autobot leader. Optimus seemed paralyzed in his grasp, staring in horror at the chaos happening in front of him while he bled out, a pool of his energon having fallen around their peds. Megatron decided that was enough and wrapped his other arm around the Prime’s waist to pull him away. The Autobot leader stumbled with him, legs shaking as they finally entered the med-bay and the door slammed shut at their backs.  
  
Silence encompassed them thickly, leaving only their ventilations to be heard. The silver mech found the first available medical berth closest to them, half-carrying the Prime to it as he activated his commlink.  
  
“Ratchet! Your Prime is injured! Get your rusted aft out of that squabble and get back in the med-bay!”  
  
He hissed, cutting off the link before the old mech had a chance to respond. Reaching the side of the berth, Megatron slowly lowered the other mech upon it, letting him sit on the edge. Optimus gasped and whined, unable to keep quiet any longer. The modest loss of energon from his systems had rendered him weak, his temperature regulators unbalanced and leaving him to shiver. With a low curse, Megatron’s optics scanned the counters and cabinets by the berth, seeking out something to stop the flow and clean up the wounds. They finally landed on a neatly folded stack of polishing rags, and he decided for the moment that would do. Shaking servos still clinging to his arms brought his attention back to the other mech. Carefully, he grasped them, pulling them away to give them a light squeeze.  
  
“I need to retrieve those rags to clean your cuts, alright? I’m not going far.”  
  
As soon as he backed away, Optimus straightened and reached for him, optics lighting up in momentary panic. Megatron spoke to him as he moved, quickly grabbing the pile with a single swoop.  
  
“I’m not going far. See? I’m right here.”  
  
He returned within a couple nanoseconds, dropping the pile at his side and sitting in front of the Prime. Optimus’s frame relaxed as he did so. Grabbing one from the pile, he turned back to him and placed his digits under the other’s chin, lifting it enough that he could dab and wipe away the energon streaks that were gushing and drying around his optics.  
  
Optimus flinched the first few tries but settled when Megatron’s clawed digits moved over his jaw, cupping the side of his face. Abandoned of his better sense of judgement, he leaned into the contact and his optics drifting closed. Megatron paused as he did so, his spark giving a small pulse at the display which he hurriedly dismissed. This was not the time to be meditating on his own emotions, not when the Prime was mentally unstable and surely ready to break.  
  
“You better not believe anything that traitorous seeker said to you.”  
  
Blue optics flickered back online as the silver mech spoke, dimly focusing on him once more. Megatron’s gaze found his, and they stared at each other, the warlord trying to read what the Prime would do. His brows furrowed when Optimus broke optical contact first, his gaze falling to the berth beneath them. The warlord’s servo paused where it hovered over his fore helm, drifting down as he finally recognized the emotion within those blue optics as shame. Shame, and guilt. Optics widening and field flaring, Megatron’s drifting servo grasped the other side of the Prime’s face, eliciting a startled gasp. He nearly shook it in lunacy.  
  
“You listen to me, Optimus Prime. These… these marks and etchings on your plating, _none_ of them are true, and you know it!”  
  
He declared desperately, watching as the Autobot leader’s optics cycled wide.  
  
“What Starscream spoke—it was done out of jealousy and insanity! Mark my words, he’ll _pay_ for what he’s done. But you _cannot _believe any of it, do you understand?! Let those words be scratched on my armor! _I_ destroyed our planet, _I_ murdered your soldiers, and _I _left you and your team to starve on this Primus-forsaken planet!”  
  
Megatron vented harshly, glowering at Optimus with a fury he did not understand. What was he angry at? Starscream? The Prime? The lost cause of his Decepticons? Himself?  
  
“… You did not deserve this, Optimus. Do not fool yourself into thinking any of it was just.”  
  
The silver mech concluded with finality.  
  
Optimus did not react at first, his optics still wide and taken aback by everything Megatron had stated. Kliks passed in complete, utter stillness, and as they ticked away the Decepticon leader wondered mutely if the Prime’s processor had glitched. But then he saw it.  
  
Coolant rushing to gather around those bright blue optics, threatening to spill.  
  
It was so utterly bizarre to see on Optimus Prime’s faceplates that Megatron recycled his optics twice, still being met with the same view. When a single tear finally fell, his anger brusquely dissipated. Without thinking his clawed thumb reached out, brushing it away in such tenderness he couldn’t believe it was him doing it. Following the action, Optimus’s face contorted into an expression of raw, tank-wrenching agony. A guttural groan ripped itself from his throat, and he clenched his optics shut before yanking himself out of Megatron’s servos and into the crook of his shoulder.  
  
The warlord froze as the Prime pressed against him, shaking from the cold seeping into his struts, the sobs wracking his frame, and the utter turmoil of emotion swirling in his spark. His whimpers and cries were piercing, like a waterfall that finally broke the dam. Red arm struts bleeding blue wrapped around the warlord’s neck, clutching tightly and fearing the consequences of letting go.  
  
Megatron did not react for a solid half of a klik, unable to process the fact that not only was Optimus having a mental breakdown, but he sought his ex-enemy for comfort.  
  
When he at last regained his bearings, he wrapped his own arms around Optimus, drawing him closer. The Prime hiccupped and huddled nearer, his leg struts draping over the Decepticon’s as both pairs dangled over the edge of the berth.  
  
“Breathe, Optimus.”  
  
He muttered, carefully running his digits over the Prime’s spinal strut when he shuddered and let go of another sob. Tilting his helm, closed his optics and brushed it against the other’s leaning against his neck, venting a soft sigh into the blue metal.  
  
Following the exchange, the door to the med-bay slid open, revealing the old Autobot medic. Megatron’s optics onlined, glaring at the intruder as his servos subconsciously tightened their grip on the Prime. Ratchet’s expression, pinched into irritation, immediately relaxed as he took in the scene before him. Megatron’s glare dispersed as well, quietly hushing Optimus when he keened again. Behind the old medic, Knockout suddenly entered. He took one glance at the Prime’s frame, his face twisted into a disturbed grimace, and he ran back out of the room without a second glimpse. The Decepticon leader huffed, resisting the urge to roll his optics at the racer’s juvenile antics.  
  
He could only thank the Prime they now had a competent medic on board the ship.  
  
Ratchet’s optics were devoid of any previous shock they’d held, and he calmly strode across the room to the cabinets, removing a welder from one of them. Then he walked towards them, stopping at edge of the berth to pick up a rag from one side of Megatron and around to sit on the Prime’s other side.  
  
“It took you long enough to get here.”  
  
The warlord grumbled, but it held no real heat. Ratchet indignantly huffed, skilled digits already at work drying away energon before welding an etching shut.  
  
“Well, someone had to stop the chaos. Since it wasn’t going to be either of you, it fell onto Soundwave and I. And it wasn’t exactly easy to pull the Wreckers off.”  
  
Megatron snorted to himself, his servos lowering to the Prime’s lower back to allow the medic more space to work. Optimus’s sobs were quieting, but by the way he nuzzled into the Decepticon’s armor, it was clear he would not be going anywhere for a while. Not that Megatron would’ve allowed him to be moved, nor would Ratchet have asked.  
  
An uncharacteristic sigh drew Megatron’s attention back to the medic, and he curiously observed the melancholy now on his faceplates.  
  
“This… this is unacceptable, Megatron.”  
  
He stated quietly. The Decepticon leader sighed in response.  
  
“I know.”  
  
Optimus suddenly tenses, and Ratchet pulls the welder back, cursing when one of the carvings begins to bleed again. He grabs the rag at his side and presses it against the cut to stem the flow. Megatron watches in a state of detachment, his digits rubbing circles into the small of the Prime’s back.  
  
“Where is Soundwave?”  
  
Ratchet’s optics flicker up to him briefly before returning to their task.  
  
“In transit to the bridge, analyzing the ship’s surveillance footage from the past five groons to figure out how Starscream managed this.”  
  
Megatron nodded. His optics drifted to far wall past the medic’s shoulder, dark and pondering.  
  
“… Dreadwing and the vehicons took Starscream to the brigs on the bottom level. Last I heard, they were setting up guard shifts to be sure he does not attempt to escape.”  
  
The Decepticon leader refocused with a sudden blink. He doubted that with the amount of injuries the seeker was sure to have, he would even be capable of escaping those cells. But after this cycle’s events, he assumed his soldiers would all want their time to properly sneer at the sick fragger. Ratchet paused after welding shut a few more etchings, properly looking up at him.  
  
“He deserves _execution_, Megatron. He may be your second in command, but this kind of retaliation against the truce is just _too far_. Our team is demanding his helm on a pike, and I don’t think they’ll take anything less—”  
  
“… No.”  
  
Megatron straightened when a low murmur reverberated off his plating. Ratchet immediately silenced, both of their optics widening when Optimus slowly loosened his grip around the Decepticon’s shoulder. He pulled back enough that he rested on the silver mech’s chest, staring hazily at the floor. It was the first time he’d spoken since the warlord had found him in his chambers.  
  
“Don’t execute him.”  
  
He rasped. Ratchet and Megatron exchanged a wary glance before the medic replied.  
  
“Optimus… What he did to you, it’s _unspeakable_! He _defiled_ you in one of the worst ways possible, he’s bound to do something like it again, and you’re suggesting he remain online?!”  
  
The medic ranted incredulously. Megatron sighed, fighting the urge to rub his energon-coated servo over his faceplates.  
  
“I’ve already told you, Optimus, if you think in any way this is just—”  
  
“I don’t.”  
  
This time he cut off Megatron, effectively silencing him with another low mutter. A few moments passed before the Prime lifted his helm to stare at the Decepticon. Damaged as he was, Megatron was astonished by the sheer amount of condemnation in his gaze.  
  
“… He did this to _me_. His allotted punishment should be no one’s decision, but my own.”  
  
Both the medic and the warlord blinked, sharing an expression of surprise, and mild curiosity. Megatron was first to respond.  
  
“What will you do?”  
  
He asked cautiously. Optimus opened his intake to respond, only to be cut off when the door to the med-bay slid open once more, revealing the cherry red Decepticon medic. Behind him walked a disgruntled-looking Dreadwing, and in both their arms were substantially-sized boxes filled to the brim with a menagerie of objects. The three of them stared at the newest occupants of the med-bay.  
  
“Knockout, what are you doing?”  
  
Ratchet asked gradually. The medic and seeker walked up to the berth next to theirs, setting the boxes on top of it. He glanced back at the Decepticon leader with a with an allusive grin.  
  
“You didn’t think I’d abandon a patient in need, did you?”  
  
He asked with a wink. Megatron raised a metal brow.  
  
“If that wasn’t your intended action, then you are an impressive actor.”  
  
Knockout only smiled wider, reaching into one of the boxes and pulling out what looked to be a bottle of red paint. He held it out, glancing at it and the Prime in rapid succession before tittering dismissively and putting it back in.  
  
“Nonsense! I simply needed time to gather the proper supplies before I could return here and set to work. It’s not often I get the opportunity to redo anyone’s paint job besides my own!”  
  
Taking out another red bottle, he held it in front of him and examined it for a moment before nodding. Then, he reached in and pulled out a buffer, deviously smirking at the Autobot leader. The expression was swift to have unease churning in his tank.  
  
“And Sweet Rims, I’ve been wanting to tune up your color scheme since I first laid optics on you.”  
  
*  
  
As much as Knockout had wanted to immediately set to work on buffing out the welds over his back, he’d had to put his excitement on hold. After all, as Ratchet had grit out with grinding denta, their first priority was to seal the leaking scratches and cuts before their patient fully bled out.  
  
Such a task was easier said than done. It took a better part of the cycle, and nearly all of the rags they had in their cabinets, before all of the meticulous welds were complete. Halfway through, the Prime had lost enough energon that crossed into emergency reserves, swaying on his peds and unable to properly focus on any of them. Shortly following this realization, he was attached to an I.V. and closely monitored for the next three groons, and the medics only breathed a sigh of relief when repairs were complete and three more cubes of energon were filtered through his systems. The seemingly infinite number of welds over the writing on his frame made him look like Frankenstein, as he was oh so kindly dubbed by Knockout and his love of horror movies. That comment earned the racer an especially hard whack over the helm by Ratchet’s wrench, sending both of them into a frenzy.  
  
_“OW, watch the paint!”_  
  
_ “I’ll blowtorch your paint if you don’t watch your glossa you insensitive glitch!!”_  
  
Well, at least Optimus wouldn’t offline.  
  
Through it all, Megatron stayed at his side. At the forefront of his processor, he reasoned that it was to keep Optimus calm and mentally stable through repairs. Deeper, however, in the confines of his spark, he knew it was for reassurance and to provide any comfort he could. Both to the Prime as well as himself.  
  
He did not leave until Soundwave entered the med-bay, a couple kliks after the last weld had been made and Knockout had begun smoothing them out with one of his extensive plating repair tools. He’d carried with him a datapad containing the surveillance footage of the earlier cycle, specifically of the med-bay and recreational area in the early morning as well as Optimus’s private chambers about three groons later. When he approached Soundwave to take the pad, he felt the edge of the spymaster’s disappointed and revulsed field. It’d shocked him so severely to feel _anything_ from his TIC that his helm had snapped back up to behold him. In response, Soundwave had nodded his helm towards Optimus, and they both turned his way to ask to silent question of whether he would want to see it as well. The Prime had shaken his helm and looked away. He knew what had happened now, he didn’t need a reminder of it. Soundwave took the cue first and walked away, waiting at the door for the Decepticon leader to follow.  
  
Megatron had turned back, and the faction leaders shared subtly frustrated and saddened expressions, not really wanting to separate. But Optimus’s state of mind and health more important that the silver mech’s continually aggravating emotions. He would know what happened, and if he had to leave to be sure the Prime would not break down in tears again, so be it. With a promise that he would return later to check on his status, Megatron left to follow Soundwave to the bridge.  
  
As it turned out, Starscream’s scheme was chillingly simple. He’d snuck into the med-bay before either medic had onlined, swiping two vials of strong sedative and anesthetic fluid. From there he’d entered the rec room to swipe a morning ration cube, slipping both vials into the energon and then patiently waiting as bots meandered in for their own. When Optimus strode in, he promptly walked up next to him, politely offering the cube and an outwardly harmless conversation. Surprised at the seeker’s wanting to interact with him, Optimus seemed to have cautiously taken it in stride, taking the cube and engaging with the SIC. After a brief talk that appeared to have bored the seeker, Starscream had excused himself, leaving Optimus to stand and watch him leave curiously. Ultimately, however, he had no suspicion of the encounter, and had then left the rec room and retreated to his quarters to continue drafting the peace treaty.  
  
He’d sipped at his cube for what shaped up to be about a groon, finishing it just as he began to act sluggish and drowsy. To his credit, he’d fought the sedative in his systems for another fifteen kliks, which was highly impressive, before he finally collapsed forward at his desk, systems deep in stasis.  
  
The warlord halted mid-step at the entrance to the bridge when the footage showed Starscream entering the room immediately receding his collapse. When he checked the time stamp, it matched up with the groon he’d been discharged for patrol. Soundwave turned his helm towards him when his claws dug grooves into the edges of the screen, red optics never leaving the replay of footage showing Starscream stalking around the Prime, filing his claws on a personal sharpener. He could only stand to watch the first few kliks of the seeker making a canvas of Optimus before he skipped forward, paying attention to the time stamp as he resumed normal speed. Starscream finally stepped away from the bleeding Autobot about ten kliks before he’d returned to the bridge, a rag surfacing from his subspace and ridding himself of the evidence.  
  
Megatron’s optics flicked between the time stamp and the video, watching each precise moment he’d called the Prime on comm link. He remained unconscious throughout the first, only beginning to stir at the second. By the third, Optimus seemed to have finally awoken, his actions lethargic as he attempted to push himself upright but froze rigidly. His pain receptors must’ve come online at that point. Slowly, ever so slowly he moved his arms into view, turning his struts and rotating his joints as he took in what had happened to his armor. The Prime’s movements became stuttered and jerky as he looked down at his frame, indicating his rising horror. Mere kliks before the Decepticon leader had entered the room, Optimus had launched himself out of the chair, crashing to the floor in a frenzy and scrambling to get back up, faltering in front of the window to take in his reflection.  
  
The scream was no less penetrating than it had been before.  
  
With a growl that had shaken the bridge, he’d shoved the datapad back into Soundwave’s servos.  
  
He was met then by a few of the vehicons that had escorted the seeker to the brig, hearing out their proposed guard schedule and granting it approval when it was proven to not interfere with any of the miner’s appointed shifts.  
  
The Autobots and their humans approached him next, having been waiting anxiously on the bridge after Fowler had demanded an explanation for the extended wait, and asked after their leader. He tried not to grumble at their headstrong antics before assuring them of his repairs and recovery, even including the fact that he was receiving a new paint job. The humans seemed the most excited by this, and Miko who’d recovered from last he’d seen, speculated at least a dozen different color schemes in the course of a human minute. It was difficult to keep up with. Megatron had spun on a heel, intent on returning to the med-bay now that his official tasks were complete, until the Autobot femme stopped him. He spun back around to face her, assessing with surprise her guilt as she apologized for blaming him of committing such a deed against the Prime.  
  
When an Autobot apologized, they meant it. He knew that much. With a single nod of acceptance, he knew their truce would remain, and he dismissed himself for the cycle back into the halls of the Nemesis.  
  
When he finally made it back to the med-bay, it was late into the evening cycle. His audials were greeted by the quips and cracks of another fight between the medics before he even entered. He sighed, praying to any deity that would hear him for patience before stepping forward—and running right into the Autobot leader.  
  
“Optimus…?!”  
The silver mech exclaimed, grunting as he was quickly pushed into a backpedal away from the entrance. He stared at him incredulously.  
  
“What are you—”  
  
“Don’t let them hear you. I don’t wish to be subjected to another argument.”  
  
The Prime whispered, blue optics glancing back in the direction of the rising voices. Megatron quickly shut his intake, not one to question a hasty retreat from the med-bay when the old Autobot clashed with the sleek racer. After a moment, though, he couldn’t help raising a metal brow at the other mech.  
  
“Did they not find it necessary to keep you for overnight observation?”  
  
Optimus pulled out of his subspace a medical grade cube.  
  
“Not if I ingested this to regulate my energon levels and kept these on until the morning.”  
  
He raised one of his arm struts, gesturing to white padding wrapped entirely around the limb as well as his servo. Megatron blinked at the covering, optics roaming over the Prime to notice the very same clean material covered the expanse of his body. A patch of it was even attached to his helm, though by what means he was unsure.  
  
“What purpose do these coverings serve if your cuts have already been welded?”  
  
The Prime gave an uncharacteristic shrug.  
  
“I was told their function is to disperse any lingering pain… Knockout was also adamant that I wear them to protect his paint job from damage as it settles.”  
  
Paint job? The silver mech stared at him blankly until he remembered that the Decepticon medic had indeed been working on fixing his appearance before he’d departed. Indeed, his helm was now a deeper shade of blue that shined in the dim lighting of the hallway, along with any other piece of armor that he still saw. With a somewhat awkward wave, he gestured at the Prime.  
  
“From what I can see, Knockout doesn’t seem to have changed your color scheme too much.”  
  
He ventured, which earned him a small hum.  
  
“Not the basic scheme, at least. He did add a couple new decorative features, however.”  
  
Optimus examined his own arms as he spoke, as if he could see through the padding and view something that had changed. Curiosity bit at the silver mech like a scraplet, unable to be easily pushed aside.  
  
“Is that so? And what are these new decorative features, if I may be inclined to ask?”  
  
To his question, the Autobot leader shrugged once again. It was a simple gesture, one that he shouldn’t find so intriguing. But on the stoic Prime himself, Megatron found it to be quite a marvel. He had never been so physically expressive before this.  
  
“Minor aesthetic decals. If you wish to look at them, you’ll have to wait until tomorrow when the padding can be removed.”  
  
The Prime stated definitively. Watching him curiously for another few nanoseconds, the Decepticon mulled over his words with disappointment, an emotion that he quickly stomped out with a nod of the helm.  
  
“I see.”  
  
He paused, pondering a few different inquiries pressing for attention in his processor before settling on one.  
  
“What will you do, now that you are released from the med-bay?”  
  
Optimus seemed to hesitate, turning towards the bridge for a long moment that stretched in silence between them. When it ended, he exhaled softly and turned back to the silver mech.  
  
“Ratchet recommended that I return to my quarters and take an early recharge. I believe I am inclined to agree with his orders this time. It has been a rather trying cycle.”  
  
Megatron nodded once more as he lamented. If he were in the place of his medic, he might’ve teased that his fellow faction leader did not want to be seen by his team looking like a human mummy. He almost snickered at the thought but shot that one down as well. Enough insults had been thrown at the Prime this cycle. For once, he deserved something pleasant.  
  
A sharp chill ran up his spinal strut and his optics averted themselves to the floor. Optimus had declined his smaller advances before. How did one ask permission to simply be a friend in a time of need?  
  
He could start with the journey back.  
  
“… I am willing to accompany you to the officers’ quarters.”  
  
Optimus recycled his optics at him, his helm tilting ever so slightly to the side. Megatron fought not to stumble as he continued.  
  
“—Just to be sure your energy levels do not expire and leave you stranded in the middle of the Nemesis. That is, if you would be so inclined to accept.”  
  
Somehow, Megatron knew that Optimus suspected his words were poorly chosen and mostly untrue, even if eloquently spoken. If his narrowing optics were anything to go by, yes, the warlord definitely knew. It was hard to beat down the anxious energy rising in his struts as he waited for a response.  
  
Finally, the Prime’s expression relaxed, and he dipped his helm.  
  
“Your company would be welcome.”  
  
For a moment, all Megatron could do was stare blankly at him. Did he actually… accept his advance? He had little time to dwell on this realization, however, when Optimus shifted on his peds and began to walk back the way they’d originally come. The Decepticon leader was left to jump into a quick stride to catch up before he rounded the first corner.  
  
After that, his walk slowed to a leisured amble beside the Prime, once again stealing glances to check his stature in repetition of earlier in the cycle. Optimus, however, was calm, and took his time to avoid aggravating his newly repaired frame. Their journey was made in silence, a bit awkward from Megatron’s point of view, but only because he couldn’t come up with a single decent thing to say, and Optimus did not seem adamant to start a conversation. About halfway through their journey, he reached into his subspace and pulled out the medical-grade cube, sipping at it slowly. If he had any qualms about the bland taste medical cubes always encompassed, he did not voice them. Megatron even watched for any changes in facial reaction, waiting for a small revulsed twist or a discontented frown. But there was nothing, simply the same indifference he’d become so used to, and an edge of exhaustion.  
  
They reached the officer’s quarters within standard time. Optimus replaced in his subspace the empty cube, and together they walked down the long hallway, now absent of the Prime’s trail of energon that the vehicons had surely cleaned up earlier. Without a word they stopped in front of the door of his quarters. This time, Megatron forced himself to speak as he waved a servo to it.  
  
“Well… here you are.”  
  
He concluded, internally kicking himself for not coming up with something better.  
  
Optimus glanced at the door without a sound, making no move to enter. He seemed almost hesitant himself. When Megatron attempted to ponder why, he was surprised when the Autobot leader looked back at him and let his field expand with open gratefulness.  
  
“I… owe you my gratitude, Megatron. I don’t believe I would’ve been able to exit my quarters without your aid, much less journey to the medical bay… Your assistance this cycle is deeply appreciated.”  
  
The warlord’s optics blew wide, field openly shocked by the Prime’s admission. His spark pulsed in its casing, as it had earlier when the Prime had fallen against him in tears. In an attempt to save the shred of dignity he still had left, he cleared his intake and inclined his helm back at the Autobot Leader.

  
“Think nothing of it. I owe you more than you could ever owe me. You brought this unhinged warlord back to his senses, after all. Whether or not I can help it, this alliance of our factions would not be possible if you were not a part of it.”  
  
Optimus slowly blinked, processing the statement for a little longer than should be necessary. Megatron dimly hoped he would take it as anything other than the personal compliment it actually was.  
  
But then, the side of the Prime’s lip plates curled up into the beginnings of a small, charmed smile. His spark skipped a beat. Optimus Prime; _smiling?!_  
  
Bashfully, the other mech averted his optics, his field giving the slightest flutter around him, and the memory of Orion Pax surfaced before the silver mech could stop it. The timid data clerk did that often. Megatron could not help but find it captivating, now that it belonged to Optimus Prime.  
  
As he reflected, he failed to notice that the Prime’s gaze was back on him until he felt the nudge of the other leader’s inquiring field, surely curious as to why he was staring at him in a half-daze. Straightening, Megatron recycled his optics and repeatedly cleared his intake, trying and failing to kick his voice box into gear.  
  
“Yes, well, I think I’ll retire to my own quarters for the night.”  
  
He babbled, awkwardly taking a step back towards his room on the other side of the hall. Optimus hummed in acknowledgement, his small grin still present and throwing the silver mech into a loop.  
  
“Very well then, Megatron.”  
  
The Prime watched as the old Kaonian warrior backed towards his door, crimson optics dancing from the direction he was headed to the other mech.  
  
“If you need anything, I am just across the hall. Do not hesitate to contact me.”  
  
For emphasis, Megatron pointed to the door behind him, just as his back plates ran into it with a solid clunk. He jolted at the sudden contact with the hard wall, whipping his helm around to glare at it. Optimus did not react to the scene outside of the grin on his lip plates growing just a bit more.  
  
“I will.”  
  
He admonished, attracting the Decepticon’s attention as he finally turned towards his own door, letting it slide open as he glanced over his shoulder with a polite farewell.  
  
“Goodnight, Megatron.”

  
With that, the Prime disappeared into his quarters, the door sliding closed behind him. Megatron was left staring at the place he’d just been standing. After a couple kliks, he slapped a servo over his faceplates, internally scrutinizing himself for acting like an adolescent youngling. Grumbling to himself, he manually opened his own door, entering and hoping to forget everything that had happened this cycle.  
  
Everything, except the graceful charm of the Autobot Leader’s smile, and how he’d felt in his arms.  
  
*  
  
The rec room bustled with mecha; soldiers, officers, and leaders alike.  
  
Megatron trudged in with clumsy peds, unsteady from systems yet to fully boot and irritable from low energy levels in the earliness of the morning. His soldiers immediately parted way for him, taught by eons of experience that when he headed for the energon dispenser, get out of his way or die. Conversation and chatter bounced around the room without pause, most of the mecha within it not even admonishing his presence. It was a fairly new but familiar routine, one that they valued over constant battles and patrols.  
  
The silver mech heaved a long exhalation of exhaustion. Without having to think about it, he picked up one of the warmed cubes set out and plucked a tablet of copper from the container next to it. He dropped the bronze flavoring into the glowing blue liquid to dissolve, not reacting when another mech walked up to the dispenser next to him and picked up their own cube.  
  
“I’m starting to get the feeling that four million years of war could’ve been avoided if you were allowed to recharge past dawn.”  
  
Crimson optics slid to the right, finding their oldest resident Autobot, Ratchet, also fixing himself a cube of flavored energon. A low grumble bubbled from his voice box as he picked up his rust-tinted ration.  
  
“Is your purpose in life to provoke me into permanent shutdown, medic?”  
  
He retorted, spinning on a heel to find an empty table among the many in the rec room. Ratchet swiped up his cube and followed, responding to his question with a snuff.  
  
“Unfortunately, no. That would be the sanity-depleted seeker you call your SIC. _My_ purpose is to save all the morons that end up in my medical bay.”

  
Ratchet’s quip made Megatron huff in momentary amusement. As such, it only lasted a few steps before the reminder of Starscream brought forth memory files from the cycle before. His lagging processor betrayed him with images of energon bleeding from the obscene and vulgar words carved into red plating. He stopped in place with a poorly hidden growl, causing Ratchet to pause with him.  
  
“What?”  
  
The warlord shuttered his optics and inhaled deeply, reminding himself that taking any anger out on their ship’s most efficient medic was useless. After regaining his temper, he opened his optics and stalked the last few steps to an empty table and claiming the end seat. Placing his cube in front of him, he ran a servo over his faceplates wearily.  
  
“That seeker needs to have his wings shredded.”  
  
Coming to stand next to the table, Ratchet hummed in comprehension before taking a long swig of his cube. Then, he waved a dismissive servo at the Decepticon.  
  
“I wouldn’t bother. His punishment’s already underway.”  
  
It took a few nanoseconds for the statement to properly process in his lagging processor. But when it did, Megatron blinked. Already underway? When had the seeker’s punishment begun? And why hadn’t he been notified? His metal brows furrowed as he thought, quickly glancing up at the old mech.  
  
“What are you talking about? Who’s administering it?”  
  
Ratchet was about to answer, his intake opening to speak until the volume of voices in the room unexpectedly fell to a hushed whisper. Both elder mecha temporarily forgot their conversation to glance out at them, wondering what could’ve hooked their collective attention.  
  
When the source was discovered, the Decepticon Leader found himself wide awake.  
  
Optimus Prime had walked into the room, meandering calmly to the energon dispenser without an apparent care that everyone’s optics were on him. All of the padding that had been wrapped over his frame was gone, and in its place twinkled a pristine paint job free of scratches. As he’d stated the night before, his basic color scheme had been kept, and obviously tuned brighter. But further observation showed that the ‘minor aesthetic decals’ he’d mentioned were anything but minor. Expertly-designed shapes of fire now decorated a good portion of his frame. With an admittedly clever use of inverted colors, red flames stretched up his peds and shin struts in wild spirals and curls. Similarly, blue blazes licked up the Prime’s arms and under his chest plates, stretching to the edge of his elbow as well as all the way around the span of his diaphragm to surround the bottoms of his smokestacks. If he looked hard enough when the Prime shifted to show his shoulders, he could see the Autobot insignias were encapsulated in balls of blue fire.  
  
Megatron understood well why the room had fallen still. To behold the Autobot leader now, compared to what he had been reduced to just a cycle before, was like looking at a brand new mech. It was an astounding transformation.  
  
The old Autobot must’ve caught him staring, because he gruffly cleared his intake, and then shed a smirk at the warlord before walking back towards the dispenser, greeting the Prime as soon as he arrived. After that, he concluded the medic had triggered some sort of chain reaction as the rest of the Autobot team seemed to appear out of nowhere and flock around their leader. Megatron envied the ease they found in starting a conversation with him.  
  
Wheeljack audibly whistled as Optimus let them gaze at his arms, earning a good-natured whack over the helm from Bulkhead. Arcee and Ratchet both stood back a few peds, arms crossed over their chest plating as they evaluated his new look with impressed faces. Unable to cease watching the interaction, the Decepticon took notice that the youngest members of team Prime, Smokescreen and Bumblebee, were oddly absent.  
  
It was then that Ratchet ambled up next to the Prime, speaking to him with an unreadable expression as he gestured in the direction he’d come. As he did so, Optimus looked up from his morning cube, optics scanning the general vicinity until they locked with the warlord’s. Megatron sucked in a vent and tore his gaze away, refusing to acknowledge his own aggravating appreciation of the other leader’s appearance.  
  
He did not have a long period of time to stubbornly stare at his half-filled ration, however. Not when he heard the resounding ped steps of a substantially-sized mech approaching his table.  
  
“Good morning, Megatron.”  
  
The Decepticon tensed in his seat, gaze jerking up to meet that peaceful blue optics that stared down at him.  
  
“… Morning.”  
  
He finally replied, opting to then distract himself with another long drink from his cube. Out of the corner of his line of sight, he watched as Optimus took the seat across from him, setting down his own ration. The action made him fight off a partly miserable sigh, lamenting that he was soon to make a fool of himself again anyway. Putting the cube back down, he waved a servo at the Prime’s arms.  
  
“I fail to see how these are minor aesthetics, Optimus.”  
  
Said Prime glanced at his armor once more.  
  
“Knockout had said they were.”  
  
The comment made the Decepticon leader snort.  
  
“Did I not mention that everything my medic states will either be overly or underly exaggerated?”  
  
He drawled, causing Optimus to shift in his seat as something resembling amusement colored his field.  
  
“I do not recall such a conversation ever taking place, but the statement is noted.”  
  
They fell into a short silence, both pairs of optics averting to the table as they wavered, waiting for the other to start a conversation first. About a klik passed in this manner before Optimus finally disturbed it.  
  
“… I understand that I’ve done this already,” he began a bit timidly, instantly prompting the other leader’s attention, “but I wanted to thank you again, Megatron. Not just for assisting me to the med-bay last cycle, but for… for reassurance of the etchings’ falsity.”  
  
Megatron watched the Prime shyly speak, internally cursing himself for being taken so off-guard on multiple occasions by this simple turn of emotions. Propping a loosely curled fist on the table next to his cube, the Decepticon replied with forced indifference.  
  
“I thought I made it clear that you should think nothing of it. That pit-spawned seeker threw a temper tantrum at you over envy, none of our soldiers on the Nemesis would’ve agreed with him anyway.”  
  
In the midst of mentioning the seeker, the warlord remembered Ratchet’s earlier statement, and he turned to scan the rec room for him.  
  
“Which brings to mind another matter; could you be so kind as to distinguish what your medic possibly meant by revealing to me earlier that my SIC’s punishment is already underway?”  
  
A high-pitched, sharpened shriek suddenly flooded the rec room, triggering all occupants to freeze or jump into a battle stance. Megatron only had a nanosecond to gauge the Autobot leader’s strangely indifferent expression to the commotion, before something staggered into the rec room.  
  
His optics cycled to their widest setting. It was Starscream, only distinguishable by his wings tied taunt to each other. The rest of his frame was splattered by obnoxiously pink and purple paint, muddled and mixing into each other hideously. Long, stringy pieces of polka dotted human fabric were tied in bows over his limbs, a couple of them clamping together his legs, others over his arms, and the rest on his wings. If that wasn’t enough, he seemed to have been bombed by glitter, the substance falling from him to the floor in glops.  
  
In all the millennia Megatron had endured as a living being, this was the most ridiculous and bizarre sight he’d ever seen. Behind the seeker, not even trying to hide well behind the entrance to the room, were Smokescreen and Bumblebee. They glared at Starscream with evil smirks, chuckling darkly as he tried to get up onto his tied peds.  
  
Well, this explained a few of his questions.  
  
Boisterous, unhidden laughter emerged from the other side of the room, and the warlord followed its sound to Ratchet and the rest of the Autobot team. They were doubled over, clutching their abdomens and rolling on the floor in hysterics, uncaring of the optics that were glancing from them to the seeker. After a few nanoseconds, however, the vehicons began to join in, followed by the eradicons. Soon, the entire room boomed with laughter. Starscream jerked pathetically in his bindings, his optics flashing in mortification and horror at his onlookers.  
  
Megatron observed the scene with wide optics, not sure whether to break into hysterics or not. He wasn’t given the chance to choose, however, when he noticed Optimus rise from where he’d been sitting across from him, his field alight with a dark sort of humor. The Prime’s expression had morphed into a smirk, blue optics glimmering, and the warlord nearly choked as he saw it. It was then that Optimus sauntered forward, hips swaying with a sass he’d never thought could come from him.  
  
The seeker looked up from the crowd when the Prime stopped in front of him, his optics flashing once more when they skimmed over his newly decorated frame.  
  
“… What an odd color scheme to choose, Starscream. How must it feel to have it broadcasted for _everyone_ to see? I will wager it to be quite embarrassing, don’t you think?”  
  
He purred, leaning down gracefully to regard the Decepticon SIC amidst the laughter surrounding them. Starscream’s optics narrowed viciously, and he screamed again as he thrashed in his bindings. Optimus merely tilted his helm at the action, humming before turning to his team.  
  
“Perhaps you all would like to further compliment his new looks?”  
  
It had to be one of the most disturbing sights he’d ever witnessed: the remaining Autobots, all ginning maliciously as they stalked towards the seeker. Starscream’s optics widened in panic as Wheeljack grabbed his wings and dragged him out of the room, followed by his fellow comrades. His final shout faded with his exit that left a glitter trail over the floor, and with it the laughter finally died down.  
  
Megatron stared at Optimus as he turned back and returned to their table with a contented expression.  
  
“… I never would’ve thought you to consider pranks as punishments.”  
  
The Prime shrugged without a word, oddly pushing his cube to the other side of the table and taking the seat next to him. Struggling to think of something tangible to say, Megatron was suddenly struck into stillness when lips brushed against his cheek plating in a tender kiss.  
  
Did… Did Optimus just…?  
  
His spark halted in place, before spinning and pulsing brightly. The warlord whipped his helm around to gawk at him, finding the dark smirk replaced by the most tender smile he’d ever seen on the Prime’s face.  
  
“You asked me not long ago if I would accept an invitation to share energon,” he started, withdrawing back to a timid, tentative nature beside the stunned Decepticon leader. “I didn’t know if this offer was still open?”  
  
Megatron couldn’t help the absolutely stupid grin that took over his faceplates.  
  
If the loss of Optimus’s stoicism was the consequence of this horrific event, then perhaps he owed Starscream thanks.  
  
That is, after the seeker got his aft kicked by the Autobots.

**Author's Note:**

> Optimus: ... When did I deserve to be put through this?
> 
> Me: When you became my muse.


End file.
